The Beast Within
by Maladicta
Summary: Not every Beast is visible to the naked eye. Complete


A/N - hey guys, this is the story I wrote for my QCS exam. I have a feeling I'm gunna get a 2 or something like that for it. I have spelling mistakes, it's too long. And the markers don't understand unco-narratives. Oh well, hope you enjoy it more then they do.  
  
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I wake suddenly from a dream, one filled with sunshine and light things, to a nightmare. I can hear Him coming, His feet upon the stairs. I hold no hope that He will turn aside. The footsteps slow, but that has only fooled me once. It is the game He plays, a game I refuse to be apart of. The door whimpers open. Perhaps it is ashamed of its lack of protection? But I hold no rancor in my heart, for it is just a door, just a symbol, a broken symbol, shattered like my life, shattered like my heart.  
  
He has entered now, sits on the bed calmly and discusses my shortcomings with the air. How I hate Him, loathe His presence. His lying lips, spinning false truth as an ancient aunt spins wool. I hate Him, Him and His faces, His different forms of being. But if I hate Him, should I move to hate myself? What am I but a shadow, wearing different masks to hide the truth. To scarred to tell the world what happens in the night, what He does to me. Too frightened that I will not be believed. Or perhaps, too frightened that I will.  
  
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I ignore the morning chatter, too tired from last night fresh betrayal to care. I leave the kitchen to its inhabitants, mother and father and Him, turn into the hall and stand before the mirror. Smile until I feel as if my face will crack, crack like my heart in my chest. A new face for a new day. I slip it on with my blazer - all ready to hide my pain, the shadow pain, born in the night and filling up my soul.  
  
The bus comes, and as I do every morning I run to catch it. Berated by my friends, as is the established routine. I care little; it is getting harder, harder to hold it in. I have so many faces now. A face for home, smile contented, a face for school, friends and teachers, two faces for church, prayers unanswered, a spare one for the priest, and one for Him. I am tired, and they are slipping, blending, into one another as wax crayons melting in the sun. But I am too tired to be afraid, my soul to weighed with shame to care.  
  
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I wake in English, to afraid to make a noise. Was I asleep? Somehow I think not. It is the faces again, the other Me's who now have the power to take over. I blink, and words wash over me, a thousand sorrows from the years gone by. Yes, that is it, the topic, our focus, what we are doing. English, novels of the nineteenth century, tales of love and pain.  
  
Quotations.  
  
Zen and Ti chi.  
  
But wait, that is not English. Where am I now? It is too much, and I retreat.  
  
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I am on my bed, there is yelling. Who I do not know who or why. I am tired, so tired. I wish to sleep but rest, like my control of them, is gone. Should I give up now?  
  
Be like a serpent.  
  
I turn, but the voice is only in my mind, not uncommon now. How difficult it is to sleep when they natter so.  
  
Like a serpent.  
  
Yes, cold as glass, and as uncaring, a mirror really, reflecting so many faces in a single day. A serpent. Yes, a serpent. Slowly I close my eyes to sleep, and I find myself wishing I would never wake.  
  
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I stare into the mirror, I search my eyes, my soul but it is gone,  
  
Like a serpent under flowers.  
  
The voice says. I agree. I have lost a face, what to do? I try and summon another, try and fail. I look at myself in the mirror, the shadow me, the real me. Lips red from kisses never wanted, thighs bleeding from touches never asked. Slowly I pull on my uniform. As a serpent shed its skin, so do I gain mine.  
  
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They are crying, saying I am uncaring - how could I? My eyes open and I look around. Science, base metals, - what? I don't understand. But it is too late, they are already walking away. That is fine, I don't need them they are nothing, they make me weak. I will not cry. I couldn't even if I wished; I am empty, a husk, no anger, no passion, no shame. Even my faces have deserted me.  
  
I begin to walk, uncaring of where I end up. Past buildings old and new, Math, History, English. I stop. Something has caught my eye. Two lines, written in haste, upon the gray black chalkboard, two lines that give me a new face, a new soul. Two lines:  
  
Look like the innocent flower.  
  
But be like the serpent under it.  
  
Yes.  
  
The voice says. And I accept. I go home then, just walk and walk until school is far behind. I have nothing, nothin but two lines of prose, a saying, a mantra, a promise. Flowers, like a gift. I will give them to Him. A gift to show Him my feelings, my response to Him, my hate.  
  
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I am in bed. The present is hard under my pillow. I take it out. Look at it. So beautiful. Sharp and clean and strong. My gift to Him. My living nightmare, my tormentor, my abuser, my Beast, my brother. A gift indeed. I slide it back under my pillow and wait. He will come, He always does, but I am no longer adrift, no longer faceless, no longer afraid. His gift is ready, just for Him, from me, with all my love.  
  
Look like the innocent flower. But be like the serpent under it. 


End file.
